


Doctoress Who!?

by WyvernQuill



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (sudden and temporary), April Fools' Day, By default, Crack, Crack Treated Not Seriously Whatsoever, Crossdressing, F/M, Fanart, Female!Twelve, Genderswap, Illustrations, Male!Missy, Pranks and Practical Jokes, because we all know she would've grown one if she could, with a goatee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-26 04:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18276170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyvernQuill/pseuds/WyvernQuill
Summary: In which the Doctor's chest feels wibbly-wobbly, Missy is delighted by the return of facial hair, and neither of them thinks to check which date it is by human reckoning......no matter how many calendars firmly displayingAPRIL 1stthe TARDIS puts on her walls.(Oh, and that picture you have in your head right now? Yes. Yes, I absolutely drew that. You're welcome.)





	Doctoress Who!?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand there goes my conviction to not post only holiday-specific stories...
> 
> Oh well. This just fit with April Fools so nicely, not least because Nugget informed me that the drawing this entire thing is based on inspired the knee-jerk reaction of "Cursed image!" in a mutual friend.  
> So, er, prank material...?
> 
> Side note, this plays in the same alternate-s10-finale world as my Christmas story, but at an earlier date, before they pick up Heather. Everybody's alive, nobody's a Cyberman, and the Doctor and Missy have struck something of a friendly truce, but it's still all very new and fragile. (And they're not exactly poster children for dealing with their romantic and/or sexual tension in any manner even approaching healthy, but what else is new...)

It was, perhaps, a testament to the Doctor's adventurous lifestyle that waking up on the cold floor, with everything aching and little to no recollection of how this state of affairs had come to pass, sounded like a typical Monday morning to him.

Or Tuesday.

Wednesday.

Any day of the week ending in 'y', really.

As was his usual go-to in these situations, he didnt even attempt to move at first, instead calmly retracing his steps.

Picking up Bill, going on adventure, finishing adventure, nobody hurt, Nardole nattering on in the squeaky voice about some tight spot or other he believed the Doctor could've avoided, the two of them wandering off into the TARDIS to sleep or eat or sulk or whatever it was Bill and Nardole did with their time, leaving him in the console room, but not alone, with... with...

Missy! Yes, right, Missy had been with him. They'd been bickering about something or other - but, let's be perfectly honest, when _wasn't_ this the case? - and... and...

And that was it.

Arguing in the console room, blackout, wake up spread-eagled on his back with someone - Missy, from the psychic signature - curled into his side, a pelt-y sensation lining not only his tongue but his entire gastric tract, and a strange tenderness all over his body that he had no doubt could turn into stabs of agony at a moment's notice.

(Now that the Doctor thought about it, this rather reminded him of the heyday of his youth, when they'd snuck out of the Academy to get roaringly drunk and... but that was neither here nor there, and he'd usually at least remember having had the intent to go get pissed, albeit no recollection of the act itself.)

The soft warmth beside him groaned, and seemed to push itself halfway up, grumbling unhappily, and goodness, what had Missy been _doing_  to sound so hoarse?

A startled intake of breath, and the rustling of clothes suddenly stopped, as if their wearer was frozen in terror.

Something poked the Doctor's chest, which, now that he thought about it, felt strangely _wibbly-wobbly._

"Oh dear." Missy said... except it couldn't possibly be her voice, hoarse or not.

Despite the TARDIS lights driving daggers through his frontal cortex, the Doctor opened his eyes.

And paused.

The person staring down at him with disbelief etched into their every feature was not Missy - not Missy _at all_ \- but instead a man, rather slight of stature, and with a suspiciously un-salt-and-peppered mop of dark curls, considering the distinct age lines etched into his fine, sharp face.

Well.

Waking up with strange individuals hovering above him wasn't exactly new, either, the Doctor could deal with this.

There was something about this one, though. Something familiar.

Maybe it was the goatee? The Doctor had rather been conditioned into taking note of this type of facial hair...

He squinted.

No, it was probably the lipstick. Funnily enough, it rather resembled the shade Missy wore.

(Not that the Doctor spent much time staring at her lips, or cataloguing which colour they had, naturally. And any Bills who claimed otherwise were obviously mistaken, and just being silly besides.)

Uncanny, really, _exactly_  the... the same.......

...

...oh.

Oh _no._

 

The Doctor finally looked away from the man's face to take in the rest of his appearance, and his worst suspicions were confirmed when he was wearing precisely the dress Missy favoured, though it was now uncomfortably tight and much too loose respectively in certain areas.

The man poked at the Doctor's chest again. _Really, it hadn't always felt that wobbly, had it?_

"Oi, stop-" The Doctor began, but broke off immediately when his voice entirely failed to be its usual growl, clocking in at roughly an octave higher. Still a little deep, but certainly not the usual grumpy Scotsman.

The man's head whipped around, staring at him - or her, the Doctor supposed, because those were _definitely breasts down there, OH GOOD LORD_ \- with thinly veiled panic.

This time, they said "oh dear" together, in perfect unison.

 

It was quiet for a while, one of those tense moments that feel like someone should start screaming and/or hyperventilating, until, finally...

"Doctor." The man-who-had-to-be-Missy whispered faintly, caught halfway between awe and horror. "You have _breasts."_

There probably could've been a stunningly witty retort inserted here. But shell-shocked as she was, the Doctor's ultimate snappy comeback ended up being a stammered "W-well, _you_ have a goatee!"

Missy paused. "I do?" He touched his face, and gasped with delight when his fingers met with facial hair, all thoughts of panicking suddenly forgotten.

"I DO!" He scrambled for his pocket mirror, and grinned at his reflection in a feline manner that was so indubitably Missy that the Doctor instantly discarded various imposter theories.

"Oh, my giddy uncle... look at this beauty! Hello there gorgeous, I rather missed you..." He purred, batting his now much shorter lashes at the compact. "If I had known I'd loose the ability to grow a goatee, I would've seriously reconsidered this female malarkey, believe you- oi!"

The Doctor had snatched the mirror from his hands, and was now staring at her reflection with mounting horror. Still wrinkly, still a few years past greying, still distinctly Scottish eyebrows. Except all her features were now much finer, lips a tad fuller, and her hair was long enough to fall past her shoulders. The Doctor was not a stranger to being told she "needed a haircut" in past bodies, but the standard comment for this one was more "get your roots done", and (one of Missy's, which had somehow stuck) "you look like Beethoven moonlighting as a magician", which she'd taken as a compliment at the time, even though Missy had certainly not meant is as one, so...

What had been the Doctor's point again? It was awfully hard to concentrate while internally screaming.

"Oh, my dear Doctor, are you going to pass out again?" Missy asked with concern that didn't quite seem fake enough, leaning far into the Doctor's space. (His eyes were still the exact same shade of icy blue, she noted faintly.) "Now really, it's just a little sex change! Deep breaths, there you go, there's a good girl."

The Doctor glared at him. "Easy for you to say!" She hissed. "This is a return to the status quo for you. I, on the other hand, haven't ever... I mean... it's all so..."

The Doctor grimaced. "Didn't _you_ hyperventilate when you first became the Mistress? Just a little?"

Missy bit his lip, studiously avoiding the Doctor's eyes. "I miiiiiiight have screamed like the little girl I am - was - the first time I looked into a mirror, yes. But, keep in mind, I regenerated under rather traumatic and sudden circumstances, and wasn't exactly mentally prepared for any of it."

"And you think I am!?"

"No, but I'd rather not have to kick you back to consciousness all the same. That goodie-goodie nonsense you've planted in my mind balks at the notion of manhandling a fainted female, thanks ever so much for that."

"Nonsense." The Doctor primly attempted to tug her somewhat uncomfortable suit jacket into a better fit. "You've _always_ been a bit of a gentleman. Not the last you, he was a chauvinistic git and an utter terror, no offense-"

"VERY MUCH offense!" Missy snapped. _"And,_ that's certainly not what your tenth self seemed to think of me at the time, m'lass!"

The Doctor elegantly ignored that.

"...but I remember that you used to be rather cordial with Jo, as much as you could, being villainous and all, so don't blame me for those chivalrous instincts, Mis-"

She paused.

"Should I call you Master again? How about Massy?"

Missy's disgusted grimace (usually meaning 'ugh, look at what the human just dragged in - oh wait, that's the human itself, silly me') was still the exact same, goatee or no goatee. "Oh goodness gracious, no, that makes me sound like an ill-behaved labradoodle."

"Massy it is." The Doctor nodded decisively, further honing her ignoring skills by taking no notice whatsoever of the pointed glare she was receiving.

 

"Now..." The Doctor tried to get back to her feet, and failed miserably, balance so off that she had to sit down on the steps behind her instead. "How about we go and find who- and whatever is responsible for this?"

Massy continued to glower, not even deigning to tease her for stumbling.

"Oh, don't pout. If they don't reverse it instantly, I might let you have a go at _persuading,_ how's that?"

Massy brightened noticeably. "Better."

Somehow, he managed to rise perfectly gracefully, despite the fact that he still wore heels. Damn the man and his natural poise. The stark contrast between the two of them was more mortifying than the time the Doctor had tripped in front of Tegan after she'd trekked through the pre-nuclear-winter Neptunian undergrowth in heels and stewardess uniform for three hours. Goodness, that had been a blow to the old self-confidence...

Massy watched her struggle to her feet with the impression of the mildly amused, only linking his arm with the Doctor's when she was finally standing.

"You might've helped." She muttered.

"I might've, yes." Massy beamed his most deranged 'I'm picturing your disembowelment'-grin. "But why dwell on the past when there's gender-manipulators to find and potentially torture? Lead the way, Doctoress!"

The Doctor stopped in the middle of her first step.

"My dear Master." She said very calmly. "You are aware, aren't you, that the word 'doctor' is, in many languages, including English _and_ Gallifreyan, a gender-neutral term, and requires no feminisation?"

"If I am to be saddled with 'Massy', it's only fair to give _your_ opposite-sex alter ego an equally ridiculous title." Massy sniffed, pursing his lips. "Hence, Doctoress."

"No." The Doctor said, because she was, and always would be, a terrible hypocrite.

 _ **"Yes."**_ Massy said, because he was, and always would be, contradictory and stubborn to a fault.

They glared at each other.

"Oh, fine." The Doctor - Doctoress, now, she supposed - caved first, because she was also a bit of a pushover at times, and she couldn't very well carry on pontificating about fairness to her old friend if she didn't lead by example. "But only because I'd rather like to get on with this before Bill or Nardole catch on that something's amiss."

Massy shuddered. "Seconded, we've gotten exposition out of the way without the girl anyway, and our predicament is better comic relief than the little bald man ever was."

He pointed his umbrella in the rough direction of the TARDIS's closest approximate to a laboratory, which, on first Mondays in an even month - as the calendar, pinned for some unfathomable reason to the TARDIS's central column, proclaimed it was - was down the western corridor, seventeen-and-a-third doors down. "Let's go. Allons-y, Geronimo, and all that tosh."

He grinned, squeezing the Doctoress's arm in a manner that was only a little bit painful.

"Oh go on, if I'm not allowed to pout, you might as well crack a smile, too! Between the two of us, we'll have this sorted in no time, and in a century or so, we'll look back at this and laugh."

The Doctoress sighed, letting herself be pulled along. _"Century_ sounds about right, Bill certainly won't let us forget about it for nearly as long..."

Because, with their usual luck, they would most certainly _not_ get out of this without an interlude of mocking.

The Doctoress would wonder what she had done in a previous life to deserve this, if she weren't a Timelord - er, Timelady - with actual recollection of her past misdeeds, and walking arm in arm with a happily humming semi-reformed villainous maniac, who had the honour of being her dearest friend.

 

Let's not kid ourselves here; this was perfectly justified karma, and the Doctoress knew it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future chapters still to come! ...eventually.
> 
> Do leave a comment if you enjoyed, it's the surest way to motivate me into writing more of this!  
> (Oh, and please give feedback in regards to the drawing! Do they look like you would've pictured them?)


End file.
